


Luxury Accommodations

by ancientreader



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 21:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10227281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: What can explain John's reaction to the fact that their hotel room doesn't even have a proper bed? Sherlock is determined to find out.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/gifts).



> To [gardnerhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill)'s prompt "Never forget that I was a soldier."
> 
> Unbeta'ed at the time of posting. Please feel free to draw typos to my attention!

“Good God.” Sherlock has drawn himself up and back, wide-eyed, and plainly feeling the lack of (a) a dressing gown (b) a couch upon which to fling himself while wearing said dressing gown. “These were meant to be luxury accommodations. Obviously the manager has been embezzling even more than Tyndale was aware.”

John clears his throat. “Yeah, uh. Obviously.” Hoping Sherlock hasn’t noticed, he tears his gaze away from what had been advertised as a four-poster bed but is, in actuality, a cot. Or, rather, two cots, pushed together and made up as one. “Bit narrow, that,” he says, and bites his tongue. Too late.

“Well,” Sherlock says, raising his head like a dog responding to a scent far outside the human olfactory range, “it’s fortunate you’re not a large man —”

“Oi.”

“— except, of course, in the one respect that matters.” Sherlock’s gaze slides down from John’s face. “But — ”

“No, shut up,” John says, feeling himself go crimson.

“But — ”

“Shut. It.”

“Why — ”

“If. If you ever want any part of me up your bum ever again: Shut. Up.”

Sherlock makes the How Dare You Call Me a Drama Queen face, and shuts up.

A sense of painful inevitability nevertheless settles in. For, as John well knows, a person can sometimes threaten Sherlock into not talking, but nothing on this earth will ever induce him to stop thinking. And when he has reached the furthest end of his thinking, the talking will unstoppably resume.

*

There’s a good pub across the road, thankfully, so even if the client-provided accommodations are not all that might have been hoped for, at least John and Sherlock are adequately fed and watered. In John’s case, this is for the value of “watered” that equals “pleasantly just more than tipsy,” because whether or not Sherlock is going to ridicule him, John feels ridiculous, and by God he’s going to have some analgesia on board for whatever happens once they’re back upstairs.

Which reminds him that Sherlock had let them into their room, before, and that he isn’t quite sure where he put his key card. He pats down every pocket, pats them all down again, digs to the bottom seam and corners of each one, even of the bloody coin pocket of his bloody trousers which is too small to possibly fit a key card, even if you folded said key card into fourths which you can’t do, God damn it, and finally has to concede that the bloody fucking thing has vanished.

“Get it replaced now,” Sherlock says; “save us time in the morning,” and he’s gone.

“I’ll give you a minute to get in the room, shall I?” John says to the space where Sherlock had been standing. “So, you know, you aren’t locked out when they inactivate the old cards. Because I’m considerate like that.”

Not that it takes long to get the cards replaced, but John climbs the stairs to their room in the resigned awareness that, one way or another, he’s heading straight for an ambush. Is it properly an ambush, he wonders, if you know when and where it’s coming and the only thing you don’t know is what form it will take?

Anyway, he shouldn’t be embarrassed about this . . . _thing_ he’s got. Christ’s sake, there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, it’s just —

John opens the door.

— a little weird, that’s all.

Sherlock is sat on the edge of the pushed-together cots, wearing only his pants. At John’s entrance he delivers his sharkiest grin, the one he otherwise reserves for lying witnesses, and shifts his legs even farther apart than they already are. On the bedside table are two key cards.

“Oh, you bastard,” John says. “When did you pick my pocket?”

“Really,” Sherlock says, pinching apart the placket of his pants and, with great delicacy, drawing out his cock and balls, “is that your chief concern at present?”

John has to concede that it isn’t, because Sherlock is tracing a forefinger around the edge of his foreskin where the head of his cock is just coming up, and John has quite strong sense memories of that cock filling inside his mouth, of Sherlock holding John’s head still and sliding himself back and forth while John opens his mouth wider and closes his eyes, coughing maybe on the first flush of salt at the back of his throat . . . And this. The _thing._

“Mm,” Sherlock says, “now you’re biting your lips; I think”—and he wraps a hand around his cock, just holding it, which always drives John crazy, the thought of Sherlock feeling himself harden in his own hand—“it’s time you got your clothes off, isn’t it.”

John is pulling his T-shirt over his head and shucking his trousers and pants before Sherlock has finished the sentence; he falls to his knees between Sherlock’s legs and slaps his hands away, reaches up with one hand to push him down. “Get — get these —” so Sherlock arches up his hips, Christ yes, pants off _off off_ , and John brings up as much spit as he can and licks wet all over Sherlock’s balls, the underside of his cock; he pushes Sherlock’s thighs flat apart and bites at the pungent crease where inner leg meets pelvis, making Sherlock yelp and leak.

“Yeah,” John says, and, a little taunting, “You get what you asked for”; he takes a grip of Sherlock’s balls to remind him to stay in place and brings his mouth down over his cock, down, all the way down till the head hits the back of his throat; comes back up till he’s covering just the head, dips his tongue into the slit and pushes at it; Sherlock’s hips hitch, earning his balls a yank from John’s motionless hand wrapped around them—“Bloody _fuck,_ ” Sherlock says, “fuck, you, fuck that fucking hurt.”

Getting Sherlock to swear is always a win. John takes his mouth off his cock to reply, “Hard as a rock, though, aren’t you,” and presses his knuckles into Sherlock’s taint, with the entirely intentional side effect of another, somewhat gentler, tug on his balls that makes him groan and throw his head back on the mattress. It wouldn’t take much more to bring him off, but suddenly John wants to feel Sherlock’s hot skin under him, wants to lick at the patch of sweat that always forms on his neck when he’s close to coming; he climbs onto the bed and crawls up Sherlock’s body to kiss him and suck at his mouth and nip at the base of his throat.

Sherlock’s legs wrap themselves around John’s back; John brings his left hand down behind Sherlock’s thigh to stroke him and braces himself on his right elbow; “Come on, then,” he says, “I want to see.” Sherlock leaves off clutching at the blanket and latches on to John’s arms, opens his eyes to gaze directly into John’s face, only for a moment: he twists up and muffles a long cry against John’s neck. His fingers are going to leave bruises. John is savagely glad about this. He raises himself to wipe some of the come scattered on Sherlock’s belly and slick his own cock with it. Sherlock can be a selfish prat but, give him his due, he seems to regard sex as something that ought to be done at least as well as chemistry, or detection, or the wearing of closely tailored suits, so he’s deadly alert to everything John likes: with both hands, he reaches behind John to spread him and push against his hole, because there’s something about that combination of fucking into his own hand while his arse is held open, that feeling of being made visible front and back, that sends John flying wild faster than anything. It works on him now the way it always works, until he falls groaning into Sherlock’s arms.

“Off,” Sherlock says in a few minutes, rolling halfway over to emphasize the point. John flails about for the discarded pants and manages to find them and wipe both himself and Sherlock off before he is even as much as half asleep. This would be reason to congratulate himself, which he is vaguely doing as he drifts downward, only of course he is interrupted by Sherlock, sounding perfectly awake and alert, and saying,

“Now. Tell me what it is about cots.”

John has a flash of the familiar embarrassment, but then he thinks, _Oh, fuck it_. “Was all that your interrogation technique then? Meant to soften me up?”

“To harden you, you mean.”

John pinches him.

“It’s quite sad that you assume I have an ulterior motive.”

John waits, saying nothing. _One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ._

With a little shake: “We’re partners, John. You should confide in me.”

“Yeah, I think you should work for it some more.”

Aggrieved: “I think I’ve worked quite diligently.”

“Oh, so that _was_ your interrogation technique.”

Moving on from “aggrieved” to “with asperity”: “I suppose you’ll tell me it needs improvement.”

Which, actually, is a shade away from genuine hurt at John’s unwillingness to tell him, so John gives his hand a squeeze and decides to have mercy. “Ah, you’ll laugh. The first really terrific sex I ever had was on an army cot, back when I was a new recruit. I was young and horny and I guess I imprinted on the damn things.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says; “in short, these _are_ the promised luxury accommodations,” and he does laugh. But, John has to admit, very moderately indeed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My exchange with [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed) in the comments reminded me of how much my sexual imaginings about Sherlock and John owe to their characterizations in her wonderful porn (and her wonderful non-porn with dirty bits in). Belatedly, then, this is for her, with thanks for being such a wonderful part of this fandom.


End file.
